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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28199664">From the Precipice</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/hydrangeamaiden/pseuds/hydrangeamaiden'>hydrangeamaiden</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Amputation, Body Horror, Child Death, Depression, Dragons, Fae &amp; Fairies, Gen, High Fantasy, Minor Character Death, Parenthood, Past Character Death, Paternal Instinct, Platonic Relationships, Religious Imagery &amp; Symbolism, eldritch location</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 23:20:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,916</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28199664</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/hydrangeamaiden/pseuds/hydrangeamaiden</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After a terrible loss, the dragon Paiphaen goes to the edge of a cursed land to live out his days in solitude. Luluto seems to be the only place where he can escape the capricious, cruel gods of Selda--but only because it consumes everyone who wanders too far in. Paiphaen thinks that's what he's destined for, too. But one windy night, a young prophet approaches from the north with a message that will pull him back from the edge.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I didn't really have much of a character for Luna Moth's father, and to be honest, I didn't like how Mothlight was going. It felt like it was going all over the place with a lot of dangling plot threads, etc. So the usual troubles I have when writing original fiction. So, instead, I'm going to piece together short stories like this.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">Less than a mile from the settlement, and his home on the outskirts of town, Paiphaen watches the cold sand dance in the wild. With the end of autumn comes the harsh wind from the north. The other villagers have already buttoned themselves up inside their homes and boarded up the windows. Because Paiphaen lives in a burrow, all he has to worry about is keeping his door locked up tight...while also keeping his living space well-ventilated.</p><p class="western">The air purifier he bought from the last visiting caravan has gone faulty in only two weeks’ time. Paiphaen sits cross-legged with in his lap, undoing the screws with his claws in resigned silence. He will fix the purifier, or he will inhale sand and choke. The former is the only outcome he will accept, though as half an hour ticks by and he has not made any progress in figuring out the machine, his thoughts turn towards protecting his valuables from the buffeting winds.</p><p class="western">While he’s packing up his things and covering them with thick canvas, he hears a knock at the door. He ignores it at first, assuming it to be a rock tossed by the wind. But then it comes again: one knock, then three in quick succession. Paiphaen gets to his feet and throws open the door. He emerges, wings spread in full, ready to intimidate whoever has come with his stature alone. However, there’s no one around.</p><p class="western">He is about to turn back when something pokes him in the leg, and he looks down to see a small figure. They are covered in white and sapphire blue robes that drag behind them in the sand. White gloves hide their hands, and a featureless mask obscures their face. Paiphaen cannot discern their gender, shape, or species, only that they, for some reason, have chosen to visit him out of all villagers. Their clothing, practically regal in appearance and material—real silk, he can tell just from looking—marks them as an outsider. Royalty or nobility has no business with a fringe colony on the outskirts of hospitable earth.</p><p class="western">The visitor lets themselves in and sits on the mat spread across the floor. They hold their knees and rock back and forth as they take in their surroundings. Paiphaen follows them back inside and squats on the floor across from them.</p><p class="western">“What business do you have in such a place?” he asks. The visitor runs a finger down their throat. <em>Thirsty</em>. Paiphaen suppresses a groan and goes to the water tank. He brings back a glass, and the visitor turns away from him to drink. Clearly they do not want him to see their face, which he can respect, if nothing else.</p><p class="western">“Are you lost?” he asks when they’ve finished. They shake their head, and start to sign too quickly for him to understand. He holds a hand up. “Slower.”</p><p class="western">The visitor cocks their head to the side, and restarts what they were signing: <span>‘I come to you on behalf of Ceridwen of the Vow in regards to a...a sacred duty.’</span></p><p class="western">Their signs are stilted, and have clearly been rehearsed. Probably in front of a mirror. But more importantly: they’re a prophet. That would explain their garb. He doesn’t know the full of it, but when they go to speak for their divines, prophets dress as to ward off others. No matter how minor the deity, no one wants to invoke their wrath.</p><p class="western">“I am not opposed to learning more,” he says, when they seem to hesitate. The prophet rubs their thumbs against their fingers, thinking for a moment, before continuing.</p><p class="western">‘You must go into Luluto,’ they sign. ‘There is someone in there you must bring back, and care for.’</p><p class="western">“For how long?”</p><p class="western">The prophet seems taken aback. They fidget some more, and then answer, ‘A long time. Please do it?’</p><p class="western">They clasp their hands imploringly, while Paiphaen considers. He thinks about the deities he’s familiar with: the Sunbeast, whose capricious and volatile nature frightened Paiphaen from its temples decades ago; Alkaza of the Rebirth, gentle and passive, but whose prophecies are rumored to lead adventurers into certain danger.</p><p class="western">One can learn a lot from a deity from their name alone. He has never seen or heard anything of Ceridwen of the Vow, which is not unusual: most higher beings are obscure, and are known only through fulfillment of wishes or intentions. A vow holds more weight than a simple promise. It implies a deity who values following through with intentions, finishing things, and honoring long-term commitments. Being bound to the terms of a higher being for such a long time doesn’t sit well with him.</p><p class="western">“What does the Vow offer as a boon?” he asks. “And what will happen if I refuse this task, or abandon it part of the way through?”</p><p class="western">‘Then she will die,’ the prophet answers, almost immediately. ‘The one you’re going to look for. Something bad would happen a long time from now. The Vow offers…’</p><p class="western">They make a little noise, a kind of ‘mmm’ that sounds like air being squeezed from a pipe, while they roll onto their knees. Paiphaen, not for the first time during this encounter, is starting to wonder how old they are. He scratches one of his horns and waits for them to respond.</p><p class="western">‘No gift,’ the prophet signs apologetically. ‘But I can help. And I can come back later with a gift.’</p><p class="western">Paiphaen nods in understanding. He’s not the kind of dragon to just let someone die if there’s nothing in it for him. But he has to be careful. If the Vow is a primordial being, like the Sunbeast, then he is right in pushing for a reward. If he were smarter, he’d know just what to ask for in order to cancel out the misfortune that this being could inflict upon himself and those associated with him.</p><p class="western">Not that there’s anyone left in his life who could get hurt, and yet...there will always be more people to acquaint with and befriend. It’s a big country.</p><p class="western">“I will go into Luluto,” he says, getting to his feet. The prophet stays right where they are. “I will do exactly what is asked of me, but nothing further.”</p><p class="western">The prophet tilts their head to one side, then the other. After repeating this action a few times, they sign ‘yes’. Paiphaen almost feels sorry. This prophet doesn’t appear too bright, or they’re just incredibly gullible, but first and foremost, he has to look out for himself.</p><p class="western">The prophet waits inside of his dwelling while he prepares his day pack. They quickly grow bored of watching him, and curl up on the mat to go to sleep. Paiphaen did not see any form of transportation outside, so he can only assume that they flew here or came by foot. No matter. He sees no harm in letting them mind the house while he is out.</p><p class="western">“There are blankets and pillows in the closet in the back,” he says, and watches in amusement as they spring up. He turns his attention back to his backpack.</p><p class="western">With the size of his wings, putting anything on his back is a cumbersome affair, even when he shrinks them down. He slings the bag over his shoulders so that it’s nestled between his wings, and buckles the shoulder straps one by one. To keep it extra secure, he fastens a buckle across his chest. Gloves, boots, scarf. His clothing is all earthen and dull, far from the jewel tones so beloved by dragons. But it helps him blend in with his surroundings—as if his obsidian shell and scales did not already help him melt into the night.</p><p class="western">Paiphaen straightens himself out, and without another word, departs.</p><p class="western"> </p><hr/><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">Paiphaen wouldn’t have built his home so close to Luluto if he never wanted to go into it. The desire had been there long before he reached its borders, but these days its pull was so strong he wondered if it was trying to lure him in. The wind pushes at his back, the land thrumming with excitement as he steps over the threshold. The sun dips below the horizon, and to the east, the first moons are already visible.</p><p class="western">Some call Luluto a desert, but even deserts have thriving ecosystems. Here, there is no sign of life. The trees are dead, and the soil is arid. Those who die here are humiliated with slow decomposition. The wind can carry the stench of a corpse for up to a mile. If someone should die, they should either be given completely to the earth, or perfectly preserved. Such is the way of dragons. The land itself shows great insult to its departed.</p><p class="western">There are, as always, exceptions. Paiphaen comes across a wooden shrine that has been erected around a mummified, elderly woman. She is hunched over, still clutching the threadbare blanket around her shoulders. A metal dish laden with gifts sits in her lap. Paiphaen fishes a gold coin from his pocket, and drops it in with the other offerings. To have been this well-preserved in the dead land is worthy of reverence, and rather than feel sorry for her, Paiphaen is in awe. Every gray hair on her head is still perfectly intact. May he keep his body and mind.</p><p class="western">He checks his watch and sees that half an hour has already passed. It takes far, far longer for the effects of this land to take hold, but he’s still nervous enough to check. Coming here is like stepping onto a broken bridge over a deep chasm, and he doesn’t know what awaits him at the bottom. The only natural resources worth taking from these blasted lands never required such distance from the safety of home. For all he knows, this could be a suicide mission. He was a fool to trust that prophet so blindly. A fool for wanting to help, when he thought he had overcome his charitable instincts. It was supposed to be him against the world. The world outside of Luluto is just as cold and inhospitable.</p><p class="western">It is a comfort, then, that Luluto is equally harsh to everyone who enters it. There is no feeling like something is wrong with him.</p><p class="western">It is only by divine providence that he reaches his destination, but he does not realize it immediately. The caravan looks like all other detritus left here, yet unclaimed by its environment. Most of its wagons are on their sides, as if a strong wind or a stronger beast had knocked them over. Paiphaen uses their bulk to take shelter from the wind. He sees discarded clothing, rope, bolts of cloth, and even preserved foodstuffs. Things he could use. By the looks of it, the caravan had come down from the Sea of Grass, looking for a shortcut to Colithia. It is unfortunate, and foolish, but these things happen all the time.</p><p class="western">He takes off his pack and loads a few jars of pickled vegetables and fish into his pack, and uses a small knife to cut a few manageable sheets of patterned cotton. He finds a half-empty box of matches with the sides worn down, and empties it into his palm. There is a leather journal, mostly filled, and he strips it of its leather and unwritten pages. Underneath that is a box of charcoal and an unopened pack of pencils. It is a lucky find.</p><p class="western">He sits against an overturned crate and scribbles on a page, savoring the scratchy sound of graphite. His moment of delight is drowned out by a high-pitched, whistling sound, too high and too deliberate to be the wind. Paiphaen lifts his head and looks around for its source. He cannot tell if it is an artificial sound or the keen of a wild animal. Nothing here should be alive to make a noise, but he’s here, isn’t he? He packs everything up and gets to his feet. He is prepared to run if needed.</p><p class="western">But first, he listens. The noise starts up again at a lower-pitch; he clearly identifies it now as a living creature. Either one of small size, or a hatchling. The sound is not dissimilar to the cry of a hungry baby dragon. Deep in the cavity of his chest, the taunt strings of his heart loosen. His tail flicks to and fro in the sand as he fights back his natural urges. This is no place to build a nest, and he doesn’t even know if it’s a child.</p><p class="western">Instincts from a time long gone overtake him, and he opens his jaw to taste the wind. Beneath the grit and rot, he smells something warm and alive. He tightens his wings against his back and breaks into a jog, cresting the top of a sand dune and sliding down towards a couple of wagons that had separated from the rest of the caravan. There’s a lull in which he hears nothing but the wind, and then the high, thin noise starts again. As if led by a guiding hand, he climbs into the wagon at the end. A petrified tree has overtaken the insides, implying a long time spent in the wastelands, yet the materials he procured were fresh.</p><p class="western">Paiphaen tastes the air, but he doesn’t need to: there’s a spot of light in the branches. It’s too cramped to fly in here, but at his size, all he needs to do is step onto a wooden frame. One step, and he’s up. He did not expect to be right on both counts: it is a creature, but it is also a child. The first thing he sees is a pair of pale green wings, each spotted with a single eye. A pair of feathery white antennae lift up, followed by a head of black hair. A pair of equally dark eyes, set against a pale face, stare at Paiphaen. She is not a dragon, but some sort of faerie.</p><p class="western">She looks nothing like the hatchlings in Paiphaen’s memory, yet his heart lurches all the same. Is this some kind of cruel joke? Does the goddess of the Vow know what happened in his past? Before he can contemplate and sink into despondency, the child hisses at him. Her antennae are flattened against her head, but the fur on her arms is standing on end. It is the only part of her body <em>with</em> fur, much to Paiphaen’s confusion, but nothing about this little one is what he is used to.</p><p class="western">“Easy,” he says, reaching into the nest. The child shrieks and claws, but it doesn’t stop her from being small enough—and him massive enough—to hold in one hand. “How did you survive all by yourself?”</p><p class="western">She can’t be any older than three or four: a speck of dust by every species’ standards. In the old days, people didn’t bother counting their children’s years until they were almost adolescents, old enough to be missed if they died. Paiphaen has been around long enough to see the transition from hatchlings being disposable and unnamed to hatchlings being more valuable than a hoard.</p><p class="western">Was this wild thing loved, or despised? Did her kin abandon her, or were they taken by the elements? Is a life more or less valuable in an environment where there is nothing to live for? The child answers his unspoken questions by sinking her fangs into his thumb.</p><p class="western">“Alright, enough. We’re leaving.” Paiphaen cocoons the child in the blanket she was resting on, and searches for something to use as a cradleboard. He snaps a beam of wood down to a reasonable length, and considers using the rope to bind the child to it. But no—this is meant for cargo, not fragile bodies. The rough wood will give her splinters.</p><p class="western">He is even afraid to hold her his arm, what with how light she is, so he settles for tucking her into the front of his coat. Her shrill cries hurt his sensitive, feathered ears. His own hatchlings were never this loud. His eldest son, in particular, hadn’t cried until he was nearly ten. This one sounds like she’s going to break her throat with her raspy cries.</p><p class="western">“Hush, now,” he coos, patting the faerie’s back. Of course that doesn’t work, but she cries herself into exhaustion anyway, so all is well.</p><p class="western">It takes longer to leave Luluto, owing to the way the geography seems to shift around him. His footprints and the marks left by his dragging tail have been blown away by the wind, and landmarks have changed their position. A rock that was once pointing north is now at the western horizon. The third moon shines in the sky, but it is not supposed to come up until the end of the month. That puts some fear in him: how long was he out here for? For all he knows, this eldritch place experiences temporal shifts just as frequently as the wind blows, or the sand piles up.</p><p class="western">That infuriating wind. It kicks up clouds of sand and blocks out the sky, forcing Paiphaen to travel at low visibility. He wanders for what feels like hours, occasionally checking to make sure that the faerie is still breathing. She has gone so still and quiet that it frightens him. Between that, not knowing the time, and feeling lost, Paiphaen is experiencing more fear than he has in years. He thought he was incapable of it, after living through his worst nightmares. Nor did he think he was capable of relief, but it swelled inside him like the warmth of summer when he saw the shrine and the mummified woman. Not far past that are the outskirts of the settlement, and the familiar mound of his burrow. He tucks his wings tighter against his back and picks up the pace.</p><p class="western">His legs protest each step, and his chest burns from exertion, but he finally makes it over the threshold and back into his own world. Stepping from sand to solid ground lightens his chest and brings the light back into his eyes. The fae child lifts her head and looks around, wide-eyed, at what must look like a bustling city to her. In truth, there are no more than a hundred people living here, scattered about in tents, makeshift huts, and wagons. Near Paiphaen’s underground dwelling, there are at most five or six other people in the vicinity, if some of them haven’t already made their final journey into Luluto.</p><p class="western">The twin moons are still visible even through the haze, bathing the ground below in harsh, uncomfortable light. The kind with sharp shadows, intruding on what should be pitch blackness. Paiphaen rushes to the door and descends into the comfortable gloom of his home.</p>
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<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">The prophet is still there, and has made themselves comfortable in his absence. The bedding he offered was apparently not enough, because they were in his futon and wrapped in his finest blankets. They were still wearing their holy robes, but they had removed their mask. Paiphaen’s suspicions were confirmed when they looked upon the soft, cherubic face of a child. They couldn’t be any older than ten or eleven, but it was hard to tell with non-dragons. They all looked the same to him until the lines of age started to show.</p><p class="western">The way they are asleep, flat on their back with their limbs akimbo, brings back memories of his own children: them all sprawled across the play room floor, and him carrying them back two at a time to the nest. He can’t bring himself to kick the prophet out of his bed or even wake them up, so he ignores them. He already agreed to take care of one hatchling; he won’t trouble himself with another. Paiphaen just doesn’t have it in him.</p><p class="western">“What do you eat?” he mumbles to the faerie, who escapes onto the floor as soon as he opens his coat. After unpacking everything and putting it back in its rightful place, he goes to the kitchenette. To call it that would be too generous, though: it’s just a small stove, an ice box for perishables, and a dry box for preserves. He has to go out to one of the wells just to do his dishes and laundry, and to get water. The home he had back in Selda was a palace in comparison to this.</p><p class="western">The faerie has taken to hiding behind the ice box, arm fur bristled and antennae and wings flattened against her body. Paiphaen doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do. The prophet said that he was supposed to take care of her, but it’s all so sudden. For him, the emotional impact is the same as if he had gone to the trading post for food and supplies. It’s as if his mind refuses to let him process anything beyond her presence in his home.</p><p class="western">What if he can’t dig deeper? What if he’s unable to tap into what made him a parent in the first place? And why did the Vow choose him, of all people?</p><p class="western">The faerie drags herself around to the front of the box and stretches her arms as far as they’ll go, just barely reaching the latch that keeps it shut. Paiphaen starts to wonder why she doesn’t just stand, and that’s when he sees it: the way her dress lies flat after a certain point, why she was feather-light in his arms. Paiphaen rolls her onto her back and, despite her protests, lifts the hem of her dress.</p><p class="western">Her legs are gone.</p><p class="western">To be more precise, her legs end in poorly-healed nubs just above where her knees should’ve began. Paiphaen feels bile rise in his throat and starts to shake. Luluto, by nature, consumes. First it consumes the mind: cognizance, memories, dreams, everything. When it has eaten its fill, it turns to the body next. But sometimes, it starts with the body. The scars are old, so Paiphaen can’t tell whether this happened before or after the mind had been eaten. He hopes it was afterwards, when she wouldn’t have been as aware of the pain.</p><p class="western">He will have to check the rest of her body for signs of rot, but for now, he must provide her with food and build a nest. Going through the motions is easy, because he has done it a thousand times before. It allows him to meditate on these new circumstances, and he considers a variety of ‘solutions’. He could give the child to another resident of the outskirts, or give her to the prophet and say ‘how dare you force this upon me’. He could resist the pull of Luluto long enough to travel to a populated town and find someone to care for her. He could do a million things.</p><p class="western">The child bats at his tail and gnaws on it with her tiny, ineffective fangs. He looks over his shoulder at her, and she smiles, but it’s awkward, like she doesn’t quite know how. Her eyes crinkle around the edges, wings fluttering behind her.</p><p class="western">And Paiphaen thinks, maybe instead of all those millions of things, he could do better this time. He wouldn’t put his faith in the hundreds of gods who had failed him in every conceivable way. That faith was better placed with himself, and had he done that before, his children would be alive. It will be hard to divorce the shadows of his children from the bright light before him, but it will be done. For her sake.</p><p class="western">He shakes his head and wonders if the child has some sort of magical effect on him: an aura that makes people predisposed to her presence. But if that were the case, someone would’ve made an effort for her a long time ago. Travelers pass through Luluto all the time; otherwise, there wouldn’t be so many bodies and material remains. Maybe he’s softer than he thought.</p><p class="western">The child stops paying attention to him once she has a plate of food in front of her. Paiphaen sits cross-legged across from her and watches as she scarfs down a mush of hawk root and cured meat. It looks like sludge and is unseasoned, but he doesn’t trust her to eat anything else without choking. He swipes a smudge of food from her mouth, and at that moment, he sees the futon move in his periphery.</p><p class="western">The prophet sits up, yawning and stretching their arms over their head. They rub their eyes, which Paiphaen notices are red—not bloodshot, but blood red irises like gemstones, framed by dark lashes. They have the pale, white and blue-tinted look of someone who froze to death, but they are very much awake and alert. Without their mask, the air around them is cold. Paiphaen is surprised to see an Aelkajsf—an Ice Elemental—so far south.</p><p class="western">“You are a child,” Paiphaen says, his voice sounding a little more like a growl than he means to. The prophet gapes at him, and rushes to grab their mask. “Don’t bother. It’s easier to understand what someone is signing when you can see their face.”</p><p class="western">It’s especially true for the prophet, whose expression goes from shocked to indignant to embarrassed in the span of three seconds. Eager to draw attention away from themselves, they gesture to the child and sign, ‘Thank you.’</p><p class="western">Paiphaen nods. “It was easier than I thought. How long was I away?”</p><p class="western">‘Half a day,’ the prophet signs. They pat themselves on the chest with a smug, self-satisfied smile. ‘I helped.’</p><p class="western">“Ah.” It takes a moment, but Paiphaen remembers that they agreed to do that. “I assumed your assistance would come after I returned. What did you do? Certainly you can’t interfere with Luluto’s temporal field?”</p><p class="western">The prophet fiddles with a lock of their black hair, staring down at their lap for a few moments as if he has asked them a trick question. When they finally do respond, they seem confused. ‘Helped you not get lost,’ they explain. They spell out, ‘Temporal field?’</p><p class="western">“Never mind. You’re not going in there, so you don’t have to worry about it.” Apparently, people could come out of Luluto at different points in time, but he has yet to meet one of these rumored time travelers. He hopes that these are <em>just</em> rumors. Temporal magic is highly dangerous. Perhaps the planet itself knows this, because people born with those abilities are almost unheard of.</p><p class="western">‘I want to know...’ The prophet trails off and drops their hands onto their lap. Paiphaen decides that now is a good time to change the topic.</p><p class="western">“Come morning, I am leaving this place. The outskirts are well-suited for a life of solitude, but that is no longer possible.” It sounds unreal when he says it aloud, and so casually at that, as if it were not a life-changing decision. He gestures to the <span>faerie</span>, who is pawing at the prophet’s mask. The prophet leans forward to stroke her hair, and <span>conjures</span> a palm-sized snowflake for her to play with. There’s a lull in the conversation, then, where Paiphaen finds it appropriate to offer the prophet a loaf of bread and a skin of water. Rather than save it, like he intended them to, they tear open the wrapper and start eating.</p><p class="western">“I am going north,” Paiphaen says, though he can’t tell if they’re paying attention. He sits the faerie on his knee and scratches between her wings. “There are towns there that are accommodating of my kind. However, I do not have a particular destination in mind. You will have to rely on whatever magic that brought you here to find me again. I have no intention of keeping in touch with your deity.”</p><p class="western">The prophet nods in understanding, and Paiphaen exhales, relieved. The last thing he wants is to have some higher being breathing down his neck while he’s just trying to make ends meet. He is not from Colithia in the first place, so even if he wasn’t coming from the outskirts, he’d still be starting from the ground up.</p><p class="western">Packing up his belongings takes a little over an hour, and even with his house empty and the prophet departed, Paiphaen feels like he’s missing something. It occurs to him now just how little he has now compared to when he was living in Selda, but it is no wonder: he fled with little more than the clothes on his back. The heaviest items he owns are the air purifier and water tank. Everything fits in the pull cart, with room to spare.</p><p class="western">He hangs a lantern on the side of the cart, wraps the faerie in blankets, and departs. The wind sounds like a chorus of banshees, crying for the sudden abandonment of the burrow. It sucks at the wheels of the cart, but a mile away from the outskirts, it is just wind. The pull of Luluto weakens to a half-hearted tug, and finally goes slack. There is no wind from here on out, only the still, crisp air unique to <span>the transitional seasons</span>. The cart passes over the first patches of live, green grass. Copses, like forests in miniature, dot the wide plain.</p><p class="western">The faerie pokes her head out from behind the fortress of crates shielding her, and <span>chirps to get Paiphaen’s attention. He looks over his shoulder at her, and then in the direction she is pointing, and sees the beginnings of an old dirt road.</span></p>
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